like a tree in the dead of city tough skin is what i need to think about myself as standing tall and without bend tickling the sky with my leaves tough skin is what i speak through the chirps of tawny birds and the billions of bugs’ marching feet along the branches of my trunk
they treat me any kind of way thirteen pounds of furry muscle they demand as they stare at me guilt me with otherworldly cuteness i beg and i plead my very soul to keep for a headbutt or a tail hug to no avail i rush into the kitchen room they like sentries cold in their eyes of jewel manipulate me to open their favorite chow and place hers on the dinning table he satisfied to be served on the counter tops
she green gold black red mighty swift so small is she her wings sing out loud
few places i get to fly where nectar is plenty at dawn beyond the fog at the foot of the hills trumpets of flowers are hard to find have flown a mile industrial towers are where my forest is buried reduced to beg to borrow instead from flowers not wild that came from soulless bottomless mills Dzunuk’wa’s ornate companion was i teacher of the happy psyche freedom lover wild as thunder yet gentle like spring rain on tender ferns the vines of my Creator sky have turned to hardened wires criss crossing dividing my stars my wings fearless beating like the heart that dies so that new hearts burst out in glee through out the meadow floors of our collective imagination
she’s here again my breath she takes by force fear her grip my mind bending soul hanging on pulse pounding hard tears all dry moist hands shaking thoughts race away pupils open black what is wrong i silently ask rituals mantras dissipate falling into fog again the silence of spirit prevails